


Gold Maple

by WhisperGrey



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Camboy!Jack, Canon except for Jack's hobby, Exhibitionism, Jack and Bitty bond over shared experiences and a mutual secret, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Secret Identity, Sex Work, Two Dumb Boys In Love, Year Two, a fair amount of explicit content but way more plot than you'd expect, camboy au, camboy!bitty, references to the overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 22:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19282771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperGrey/pseuds/WhisperGrey
Summary: Jack never did it for the money, no, it was the attention that kept him crawling back to his webcam. Endless praise from people who didn't know his name and only cared about what he looked like with his clothes off.Now, nearing the end of his time at Samwell and courting NHL interest, Jack knows it's finally time to hang up his jock and move on to better things; namely, graduation, and seeing if his interest in Eric Bittle is reciprocated.All of which would be so much easier if Bittle didn't know about Jack's salacious alter ego.





	Gold Maple

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!

Like most bad decisions of Jack's youth, the whole thing started when he was high.

Jack can’t remember the rationale he’d had at the time, why he was mad, who or what kicked off the argument in the first place — the memories lost in a haze of Xanax and Jagerbombs — but Jack had logged onto the chat room of a porn site and flashed his ass to some fifteen odd dudes for a purpose.

The responses had been immediate and extremely positive; deliriously so. A dose of praise Jack hadn’t realized he’d needed from guys who didn’t know his father and didn’t give a shit that Jack could play hockey. Faceless objectification. Freedom. He was eighteen and happy. For the first time in a long while because unknown men were asking Jack to hold himself open, offering in explicit detail the ways they’d fuck him if they had the chance.

He’d been a little intimidated, but mostly it felt like familiar territory. Chirping. Jack didn’t offer anything else. No more picture — he didn’t even respond to the comments andimmediate DMs — he’d just sat back in his chair, hand flying over his dick as he luxuriated in anonymous praise. In the afterglow, the comedown, he’d closed the site, wiped his browser history, and fully intended to never think of it again. The exposure was too much, too dangerous, especially with the draft coming, the last thing he needed was for someone to accidentally see his face and sell it to a tabloid. His career would be over before it started; but, fuck if it didn’t make him feel as amazing as an overtime win.

Little did Jack know barely a year later he'd be fresh out of rehab and turning back to the camera with renewed intent. 

 

* * *

 

Samwell - 2015

 

He’s not ‘famous’ or anything, not in the same way he is in his real life, but he has a small army of admirers who show up every week to watch him spread his cheeks, stroke himself, and stick any number of things inside his person. Tonight is one of those nights. A time he shares with his ‘fans’.

_8inchesofsteel: looking good tonight, maple. Real tight._

_Brawnybrit36: oh hell he’s been working out look at his quads_

_Brawnybrit36: wish i could get my mouth on you_

Some of Jack’s fans have been with him since the start. Watched him grow from an awkward teen into a college athlete.

 _‘Training has been good to me this year’_ , Jack types one handed, a camera behind him streaming as he flexes around the slim plug he’d been teasing himself with moments earlier; all the while keeping one eye on the number of guests in his chat, and the other on the ‘donation’ total at the corner of the screen. Money with strings attached. Requests. Demands Jack doesn’t have to honor. He holds all of the control.

New users tonight. Several blank user icons hovering beneath thumbnails of burly chests and straining cocks.

 _‘Remember, we cap at 35 tonight.’_ Jack reminds, giving his hips a snap so his ass bounces just enough to tease any stragglers.

_Sticksandbiscuits: oh wow_

Jack grins at the new guy’s username, reaching down to rut against his palm, more for himself than the viewers, though he does get a flurry of reaction in the chat.

_‘Wow? That’s all you have to say, SB?’_

A few of the regulars jump on the rookie.

_Sticksandbiscuits: just imagining_

_Sticksandbiscuits: how gorgeous you’d look in a jock strap_

Once, that kind of speculation would have sent Jack into a panic — his private life overlapping with the world he’d built himself at Samwell. The cult of Zimmermann following him into his bedroom. Then he’d calmed down enough to accept his body type lent itself to assumptions, and Jack stopped being coy about his love of the sport.

 _‘Missed that day,’_ Jack types. _‘any of the boys will tell you I look great in a jock. You might get lucky if you stick around. Maybe I’ll show you my cup.’_

_654nightlark: fuck yeah you gonna make a mess in it?_

Jack offers a low moan, rocking back on the plug enough to graze his prostate. A notification flag alerts Jack that Nightlark has tipped him fifty dollars. In return, Jack reaches behind himself and draws out the plug, flexing his hole, pushing out in the way Lark likes.

_‘Would you like to see me take something deep?’_

A flurry of affirmation, a few more donations. Jack doesn’t always mess around with anal play, reserves that for special occasions or when he’s feeling the need for a certain kind of reaction. Like tonight; he wants to see his new followers come back, and Jack expects Biscuits to pipe up again, but he’s fallen silent. Lost in the flurry of people eager to see Jack tease himself; which he continues to do because he’s a professional.

_‘That all you got? Though you liked me ;)’_

More attention. More comments. Then, a loud crash from upstairs startles Jack enough he drops the plug onto the bed. Jack barely has time to smack the mute button before the entire house is up and hollering. Jack snaps his laptop closed unplugs his camera, and pulls on a pair of sweats quick as a flash.He pokes his head out the door to yell at the attic stairs.

“Rans? Holster? You boys alright?”

Across the way, Bittle’s door cracks open, revealing a mess of bed head and two bleary eyes.

“They’re fine,” Jack assures, before Bittle can ask, not knowing for sure if his D-Men are fine, but knowing for sure that no matter what the fuck is happening above them, Jack is refunding several hundred dollars for absolutely nothing. Honestly, he just needs to rent a hotel room when he does his streams; it’d be safer than hanging a sheet up over the wall behind his bed and hoping for the best.

“Boys?” Bittle calls again. “You good?”

It takes a moment, but a reluctant _‘yes’_ floats down from the attic; Bitty nods at Jack and closes his door. Jack does the same, readjusting himself in his pants once he’s safely sequestered. He debates restarting the stream but he’s no longer in the mood. There’s a solid chance one of the boys is injured and lying, so he’ll need to stop again anyway. Not to mention it’ll take another hour just to retrieve the users that likely logged off. No, clearly it’s a good time to bust out a book and gear down for the evening but not before he fires off an email to his subscribers apologizing for the interruption. He’s sure he scared a few of them and he needs to do damage control.

(Not that he’ll get much sleep with what unknown horrors are happening above them all.)

 

* * *

 

It’s a solid two weeks before Jack can find the time to log back on. Between practice, roadies, negotiations with his agent, he’s far too busy to stop and strip on camera. He knows he’s coming up on the end of this particular adventure — once he decides who he’s signing with, this will have to stop completely. No more shows. His praise will come from new, equally precious sources. Jack can’t wait to see his name on the back of a pro jersey; he’s got a hunger for the image that harkens all the way back to before the draft when he and Kenny had trolled NHL online shops generating mock-jerseys for their dream teams. Jack’s had been the Canadiens. Kent, the Rangers.

Now, it’s looking increasingly likely that Jack will end up with a newer franchise, as far from Original Six as humanly possible, but fuck if he isn’t vibing with Providence.

Regardless, no more cam shows. He’s got six months. Maybe. He tells his fans as much during his next chat, just to prep them all for when GoldMaple eventually vanishes off the face of the earth (because he’s doing something more fun).

The reactions are as expected — bummed — and Jack checks the guestbook to see how many of his regulars are in tonight.

 _‘Spread the word,’_ Jack types.

 _Spread your ass_ , comes the first response, from Brawny, before a digital dogpile of chastising comments buries the sass.

 _‘Promise my last show will be something special,’_ Jack replies, unsure of what exactly he means by that. Immediately, a flurry of suggestions, each more obscene than the last start to roll in. Then, nearly lost in the mess, Jack sees that one user. Sticksandbiscuits pops into the feed with a blue heart emoji, followed by a hockey stick.

 _‘Someone still wants to see me in a jock,’_ Jack teases. _‘Maybe I should start a poll.’_

Jack shimmies up onto his knees, bringing his hips into frame, and the sexy praise immediately stops, turning to a flood of concern that doesn’t seem warranted until Jack looks down at his thigh and realizes the camera is showing the large purple bruise he’d managed to earn himself at practice.

Fuck.

 _‘Don’t worry, just a love tap from work,’_ he writes quickly, but the masses aren't placated, in fact, he loses several viewers immediately. _'C'mon it's not that bad,'_ he placates, realizing he's probably going to need to reschedule again.  _'Just a little bruising.'_

 _Sticksandbiscuits:_ _A LITTLE??????_

_Sticksandbiscuits: Did you get love tapped by a CAR_

Jack fights a smile and writes back that he did indeed get hit by a car, only for a new flood of tips to roll in. _'No no not really. you're all so sweet tho,'_ Jack's starting to lose his energy to keep going and slips himself out of his briefs to offer a quick handjob to placate his viewers, promising a poll to come later determining what he'll do for his final stream. The suggestions in the chat are as lewd as expected, most of them requesting Jack either fuck someone, or be fucked himself, onscreen.

He doesn't bother responding to those comments, it'll never happen. Even if Jack was seeing someone, he'd never drag them into the 'incognito browser' snakepit he calls home.  

It's nice to fantasize about, though. Might even be what finally gets him off.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Jack's stripping in his stall, longing for a shower, when he glances left and catches Bittle giving him a below the belt glance. Bittle at least has the decency to blush when he catches Jack watching.

“Bud?” Jack addresses, keeping his voice low, just shy of teasing. “Something interesting going on?”

Bittle startles, stammering, “Your bruise. It’s, um, intense. Was it that bad yesterday? I don't remember it being so big.”

Jack glances down at his thigh and the bright blue-black splotch from where he’d taken a puck a few days earlier. “Oh, yeah. Not the worst thing ever. Pretty gnarly, eh? You saw Holster whip that puck at me.”

“How you going to go pro if you can’t dodge a shot?” Holster chirps across the way, kicking off his skate. “I’m looking out for you. Totally helping."

“By busting me up? Thanks.” Jack grins, turning back to Bittle and realizing his winger is assessing Jack’s answer like his question had been about something serious and not just Jack’s fantastical ability to bruise in every color of the rainbow.

“Does it hurt?”

The question doesn’t sound authentic, almost like Bittle wants to say something else and he’s just treading water until the conversation is over; likely the case because Jack is eighty percent sure Bittle was actually checking out his dick.

“Not really,” he shrugs, turning back to his stall, dropping his kneepads into his bag. “At least it didn’t hit my balls, then we’d have a real problem." Jack pokes the darkest purple spot with all the grace of a child reaching for a hot stove, immediately regretting the action. “See? Not that bad.” Jack grits between clenched teeth.

“God forbid something happen to your glorious manhood.” Shitty leans in, giving Jack and appreciative ogle. “The world needs some gorgeous fuckin’ Zimmer-babies. Protect your swimmers.”

Bittle goes bright red, looks down a second time at Jack’s dick, then seems to reset. When the moment passes, Jack files it away as yet another awkward interaction with his openly gay teammate. Well, not entirely. Bittle was kinda-sorta checking him out, which means he now has proof of interest.

Jack’s got an opening.

 

* * *

 

A few short hours later, while they’re crashing on Jack’s bed, at the end of a study session for Atley’s midterm, Bitty reaches over and slides up the hem of Jack’s shorts. Only an inch or two to reveal the bruise, taking extra caution not to touch Jack’s skin, only the fabric of his pants.

“Uh. Hi.” Jack scoots back a bit, unsure of what’s about to happen, also unsure if this is flirting. “Can I help you?”

“I just,” Bittle huffs, closing his notebook and adjusting to rest on his knees, his legs spread enough Jack can see his heels are touching his butt, his thighs on display nicely. Too nicely. “Can you sit like this for a second? I need to check something.”

Maybe this _is_ flirting. Jack adjusts and offers a ta-da motion with his hands when he's pulled himself into position. “This is what you wanted, right?” Jack grins, trying his wain luck as he musters the courage to chirp, “See anything you like? Battle scars are pretty sexy, eh?”

Bitty reaches over and tugs up the shorts to stare at the bruise, before his gaze darts to Jack’s crotch, and then, finally, down at the bedspread as Bittle goes red from his tank-top exposed shoulders all the way to his forehead. The reaction is what Jack had hoped, but the expression on Bittle’s face is wrong. Almost pained.

“Hey, bud, you okay?” Jack scrambles to get back into a decent pose and restore the balance of their relationship. “I was just kidding, I didn’t mean —”

“Gold Maple,” Bittle blurts, before slapping his hands over his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Excuse me?” Jack clears his throat. “I don’t know what —”

“I’m so sorry,” Bittle whispers behind his hands, still keeping his eyes closed. “Jack, I’m sorry I saw that stuff. I wish I hadn’t, but now I can’t keep lying to you.”

It’s safe to say Jack’s heart is no longer in his throat, it’s now somewhere closer to his colon. He doesn’t know what comes next. “It’s fine,” Jack swallows, sliding off the bed because its not a safe place for both of them to be. The situation is decidedly not fine. It’s barely edging tolerable.

“I promise I won’t say anything,” Bittle opens his eyes, moves his hands under his shaking chin. “I just had to be sure it was you.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Jack interrupts, keeping his eyes trained on the wall behind Bittle because he can’t have this conversation while making eye contact. “What do you want?”

“Want? What? Nothing, I don’t — I just thought you should know —”

“What’s your username?”

“Sticksandbiscuits,” Bittle admits, and Jack finally allows the misery to sink in. Of course Bittle would use that name. Of course he’d live right across the hall, knowing meters away Jack is debasing himself for the enjoyment of random people on the internet. How long has he known? How long has he been letting Jack humiliate himself?

“I do it too!” Bittle cuts Jack off with a half-yell, desperate. “I do it . . . too.” He repeats, defeated. “The cam thing. I tried working over the summer and it was so much easier to just record myself. Then I found your channel and you were so _good,_ I swear I didn’t figure it out until that night after the Yale game; that bruise on your thigh, I saw it in the locker room and then when you streamed —”

Whatever Jack had been expecting — blackmail, mostly — this turns the entire conversation on its head in a weird way he can’t parse quickly enough to save face. Bitty must read the confusion and elaborates.

“I watched your vids to see how you rile up your viewers. I’m not the best with the foreplay stuff, and I can’t handle anything nuts, but you never do anything huge, you don’t even talk, and people throw money at you.”

“Hockey butt.” Jack swallows dryly, trying to anticipate where this conversation is going. “It’s, uh, a niche audience.”

“And you have the best one of all.” Bitty compliments weakly, echoing a familiar refrain from Jack's streams as he rests his hands in his lap and looking to the ceiling to avoid eye contact. “I’m so sorry to have scared you. To still be scaring you. I didn't imagine us talking about this ever but here we are.”

Jack rocks back on his heels, taking deep, full body breaths to keep the adrenaline from triggering an attack. “What’s your handle?” 

“BunnyBoi15.” Bitty rises from the bed and crosses the room to fuss with Jack’s game pucks, keeping a safe distance. “I’ve got about thirty-five regular subscribers. Nothing to sniff at but nothing much impressive.” Jack opens his mouth to offer his own numbers and Bittle stops him with a stern finger. “Ah! No. I know what you’ve got going mister _‘niche audience’_. You don’t even need the money.”

“No, but I like the attention.” Jack exhales on a three count. “People treat you better when you charge.”

“Says the tall, fair skinned, masculine guy with a great ass and huge dick.” Bitty lament, clearly intent on continuing this conversation without the buffer of their real-life relationship in the way. “Compact blondes are a dime a dozen, I’m fighting guys who look identical to me shoving whole hands inside themselves, who can compete with _that_?”

Jack grabs onto the change of topic like a life preserver and holds on tight. Bittle’s not wrong. The market is saturated with cute boys debasing themselves looking for a quick buck. Bittle needs a gimmick if he’s going to build a real following. Not everyone can be blessed with the right genetics and training to end up with the kind of backside Jack’s viewers pay to see. Not that Bittle isn’t attractive.

“Wouldn’t get too worked up about it,” Jack rasps, coughing to clear his throat.

“I wouldn’t have said anything at all but it felt wrong to keep it from you,” Bittle clutches at his own arms, shoulders hunched and vulnerable as he hovers near the bed. “Hey, now you know about me, too, so maybe we can be even?”

He should leave. He needs to leave. Jack has to think, and he can’t do that while Bittle is in front of him: a walking, talking, gorgeous reminder of the fact that not only has he already seen Jack in the most intimate way possible, he’s posted content of his own out there in the ether, just waiting to be found by anyone. Or found by Jack.

“Maybe we should call it a night.” Jack scrubs a hand over his stubble, tries not to watch as Bittle gathers his things to head across the hall. “We can talk later about. Everything.”

“But, we’re okay, right?” Bittle stops in the doorway, expression guardedly hopeful. “You and me? I don’t — I like studying with you.”

“Me too,” Jack offers as gently as he can while teetering on the edge of a breakdown; not waiting for a response as he ushers Bittle out, closing the door softly behind him. It takes longer than Jack would like to settle down, shoving his books aside to flop onto his bed and breathe.

Eventually, god knows how much later, Jack’s phone buzzes with an incoming text. 

_‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything :(‘_

Jack doesn’t respond. Instead he googles BunnyBoi15. When he finds what he's looking for, Jack starts working his way through a backlog of Bittle’s streams like he’s reviewing tape and not watching the guy he’s attracted to masturbate on camera. Jack’s proud to say he only touches himself once, during a fun little video where Bittle is wearing an undersized bunny costume clearly not intended to be worn by a man with a decently sized dick. The rest of the time, Jack examines everything from the scenery, to the camera angles, to what positions receive the most tips — he needs more time to breakdown _everything_ but he feels like he has a good grasp on how to improve Bittle’s reach.

When he’s seen enough of Bittle’s cute pink cock dribbling cum, heard enough of his moans, watched his rosy hole flutter around enough silicone dildos, Jack crosses the hallway and raps his knuckles smartly against the door, and waits for Bittle to peek sleepily out from a crack in the door. “It’s like 1:30. What?”

“I finished your playlist.”

“Playlist?" Bittle rubs his eyes. "My YouTube?”

“Bunny.” Jack corrects under his breath. Bittle’s tired confusion shifts to wide eyed panic before he throws the door open and drags Jack inside by his shirt.

“You watched me? _Why_?” Bittle hisses, pacing the small room in his too small sleep shorts. If Jack looks close enough, he can make out Bittle’s soft cock shifting beneath, bulging in the most flattering kind of way. Jack realizes suddenly he very much wants to see Bittle naked beyond the contextual confines of the SMH locker room. Or the showers. Or the cam show he'd just burned through. He’d even like to hold that cute dick between his lips and _suck_ —

“You told me your name.” Jack clears his throat. “You said you wanted advice. Like checking practice,” Jack gently shoves Bittle, who is still watching him in horror. Jack wonders if this is how he looked to Bittle earlier. “I helped you with that, I think I can help you here, too. I took notes,” Jack tugs the few folded pieces of legal paper out of his back pocket and holds them out for Bittle to take. “When you had the most viewers, what got people tipping the most. Standard stuff.”

The shock seems to wear down as Bittle takes the papers and unfolds them slowly, like he’s expecting something that isn’t what Jack just explained. “Oh. Thank you? What’d you think? Of me?”

This is dangerously stupid territory. Really bad planning on Jack’s part. A recipe for total chaos with the potential to ruin his personal and professional life in one fell swoop —

“Halloween one was great,” Jack admits. “Good length, nice amount of build up and teasing. Most of your streams are too short, you need to get above that 30 minute timeline you’ve set for yourself. People pay more the longer they’re engaged with you.”

Bittle nods, lips pressed tightly as he takes the criticism in stride.

“What about the . . .?”

“Anal play?” Jack finishes, relishing in the way Bittle’s cheeks go pink. “Good stuff. You don’t give yourself enough credit, you have a great ass and clear skin, that goes a long way.”

“My hair is light enough I don’t need to wax.” Bitty mumbles, looking down, face flaming. “I exfoliate, too.”

“Good, you don’t need to wax, you look great,” Jack offers, intending the comment to be supportive but finding it’s toeing a sensitive area. “But, I was thinking maybe you need a hook? My viewers are mostly hockey fans looking for a specific body type,” Jack lifts his shirt and points at the muscle definition on his hip. “Dead giveaway for a skater. You’ve got it, too. Not as defined, but it’s there. You should start wearing a jock. Or socks. Draw that crowd.”

“Right, right,” Bittle nods, worrying his lip as he concentrates. “You think I should play up the puck bunny angle?”

Jack was already halfway to hard before he walked over, now the interest is back in force. Let it never be said that Jack’s libido isn’t consistent when it comes to hockey related anything.

“Definitely. As long as you’re pushing this ‘slight’ and supple angle.”

“Supple?” Bittle chirps, cracking a small smile.

“Easy.” Jack cautions, needing to make a quick exit, hand already resting on the doorknob. “Let’s keep this between us for now, alright? Secret.”

“You act like I haven’t been,” Bittle scoffs, gaze drifting to Jack’s hand. “So, we’re done?”

“I’ve had about all the excitement I can handle for one night.” Jack admits, easing open the door to keep from making too much noise. He doesn't look back.

 

 

* * *

 

Annie’s is busy and definitely not the place they should be discussing their shared extracurricular activity, but Jack finds he doesn’t give that many shits anymore. He should, though. He really should care more than he does, but the fear won't muster the same way now that he has Bittle to play off.

“How’d you get into, you know, all this stuff?” Bitty asks the discussion staying comfortably vague. “I know why I’m doing it. Can’t imaging a world where someone like you would be doing it, too.”

“I’m a someone?” Jack sips his coffee, relishing the fond annoyance that crosses Bittle’s features. “No, it’s a fair question. The answer isn’t that exciting. You know about my, euh, troubles?” Bittle nods because everyone knows. The world’s worst kept secret followed up by possibly the best. “It started as a one time thing never to be repeated.”

 _“Sounds about right.”_ Bitty whispers, looking over the rim of his mug as he sips at a mess of milk foam shaped like a leaf.

Jack points his spoon at Bittle because he needs to do something with his hands. “After rehab, my self esteem was fucked. My parents were weird, the press was terrible, my friends had been drafted, but there was this one place I could go where everyone loved me. Even if it was just for my body, you know? They didn’t care about what happened, and It made me feel like I had value, so I kept doing it.” Bittle is quiet across from him, contemplative in a way Jack isn’t used to seeing up close. Or at least directed at him. “Never occurred to me I might eventually go pro,” Jack adds softly, glancing out the window at the students milling about the patio. “Too late to do anything about it now.”

“Well, your crossover appeal has got to be extremely minimal,” Bitty offers, attempting to be kind. “What hockey fan is going to admit they watch a cam show because the guy has an ass like Crosby?”

Jack snorts into his cup, unable to cover his mouth in time to keep from spilling. “What you trying to say, Bits?” Jack coughs, taking the apologetic napkin Bittle practically throws at his face. The rest of his retort is lost as he coughs liquid from his lungs. _“F-fuck.”_

“I am so sorry, Jack,” Bitty laments leaning across the small table to wipe at the mess, nearly toppling his own water glass. People start to take notice, and Bittle takes notice of the notice. “Maybe we should head back to the Haus before I murder you by accident.”

“Maybe.” Jack wheezes, grabbing his jacket.

“I was thinking I want to do a video with you,” Bittle announces once they get outside, clutching the strap of his messenger bag tightly with two hands like it’s a lifeline that will save him from this conversation. “All the best guys do collabs, right? Maybe I can be in your send-off stream. To get my viewers up, obviously.”

It sounds like Bittle is lying because he probably is, and Jack finishes his coffee as he contemplates what’s happening between the lines. They’ve both been too nervous to engage physically the way they both seem to want to — a boundary between them because of the whole ‘playing on the same line’, dynamic. Also the captain thing. The age thing. Many things. Somehow coming at this relationship from the direction of them both being sex workers makes it easier to sift through the mutual attraction.

“Just for the viewers?” Jack needles. “The money?”

Bittle bites his lip, watching Jack with those doe eyes, pleading wordlessly; but Jack doesn’t dabble in miscommunication, not anymore.

“Maybe not _only_ the money?” Bittle admits. “I mean, you’re, um, not straight, right? All the stuff you do, it’s okay if it’s just for show. I wouldn't judge you.”

“No,” Jack settles on an answer. “I’m not. Not entirely. We should take a walk.”

Bittle looks at Jack, then around them both at the campus and the sidewalk they’re sharing with several other people. “We _are_ walking.”

“I mean somewhere private.” Jack amends, turning toward a copse of secluded oaks near the pond, ominously shaded due to lack of tending. “Context clues, Bits. We need to test us.”

“ _Test?"_

“Us, yes.” Jack affirms, leading them into the bushes “C’mere,” Jack stops beneath a tree, tucked away from the walking path, and extends his hand for Bittle to take. An olive branch. An agreement. “I’m not going to murder you or anything. We’re just going to, uh, make out, you know? See if this works.”

The cautious furrow between Bittle’s brows deepens before disappearing completely when he grasps Jack’s hand, squeezing tightly enough Jack thinks he can memorize the way their callouses rub; a reminder of their shared passions, a combination of Jack’s favorite things. Blondes. Hockey. Competency in a chosen field.

Then Bittle seems to second guess the location again. “We’re doing this here?”

“Neutral territory,” Jack explains. “In case this goes to shit, we aren’t ruining the haus or something.”

“Smart,” Bittle steps into Jack’s personal space, tucking up against his chest, adjusting his bag out of the way so Jack can cup his face in his hands. “No hard feelings if this doesn’t work,” Bitty says softly as Jack runs his thumb along his chin. “We can just go back to before?”

“Completely normal,” Jack breathes, fingers drifting up into Bittle’s soft hair as he leans in, watching his teammate’s eyes drift shut just before their lips touch; chaste and restrained for a second before the weight of what they’re doing becomes apparent and Bittle is dragging Jack down, tonguing at his lips, seeking entrance. Jack obliges, but takes his own initiative, pushing Bittle back against a tree to get a better angle, more control as the desperation sets in.

 _“Jack,”_ Bittle breaks away for a breath. “Wow.”

“You taste like coffee,” Jack leans down to attack Bittle’s neck, nipping and sucking until his partner is squirming.

“Come back up here, Sugar,” Bittle demands. “Kiss me proper.”

They stay there for god knows how long, kissing until their lips are sore and puffy, breathless in the way you only get when you’ve been breathing someone else's CO2 for too long and you’re a little lightheaded.

“Wow, yeah, we should fuck,” Jack laughs when they finally separate, gesturing between them both while Bittle tries to get his hair back into something manageable. “That was great. You’re great.”

Bittle smiles, teeth bright against his reddened lips, chest heaving in the slightest (arousing) fashion. “Glad I could live up to expectations. I want to do that again. All the time.”

Across the park, Jack can hear an ultimate frisbee team stomping around. It’s probably time to get moving, except Bittle’s got a little bit of a problem going below the belt. Jack clears his throat and gestures down.

“Bits?”

Bitty’s lazy smile falls into horror as he realizes he’s hard, scrambling to cover himself. 

“You want me to take care of that?” Jack offers, waffling his hand, but Bittle shakes his head.

“No, not yet, I’m — I want it to be special,” he stammers, adjusting his bag to cover himself.

“I have seen you,” Jack reminds, not intending to add pressure, more like stating a fact while he gathers his own backpack. “Might be a fun upload. Record yourself out here.”

Bittle stops pulling himself together, expression turning determined in a way that reminds Jack of ill advised plays. He reaches in his bag and pulls out his phone, unlocking the screen and pulling up the camera before handing it to Jack.

“Record me?”

“Uh,” Jack takes the phone, glances between the screen, Bitty, and the woods around them. “You sure? I wasn’t trying to —”

“Good upload right?” Bittle tosses his bag aside and pulls off his identifiable SMH hoodie, like shedding his skin to become the version of BunnyBoi Jack’s been dreaming about. “You said you’d help me, just keep my face out of frame.”

Jack nods, presses record, and Bittle undoes his belt to shimmy his jeans down his thighs, revealing a pair of light blue briefs, the front panel straining against Bitty’s erection. Jack’s heartrate quickens, he can’t help it, he did this to Bittle, made him feel that way, got him hard. Jack swallows, looks up above the phone and finds Bitty watching him with dark, adoring eyes. “ _Jack_ ,” he mouths, slipping a hand into his underwear to languidly stroke himself, pressing the tip of his cock to the fabric so it grows dark with precum.

BunnyBoi15 deserves way more than 30 followers, Jack’s going to see to it that Bittle gets what he deserves on all counts.

Bitty gives his hips a little shimmy and tugs himself up so the tip of his cock is exposed right above his waistband, massaging the head with the tips of his fingers, languidly, squeezing gently, bucking up in needy little motions. If he’s teasing his own orgasm, or Jack himself, there’s no way to tell. Soon enough he comes, spurting against his stomach, twitching beneath the elastic of his briefs, breath puffing in short, whiny gasps that have Jack’s blood boiling. Never once did he show himself fully to Jack. 

“That was good.” Jack swallows, his throat tight as he looks anywhere but Bittle’s face as the man does up his pants and pulls on his hoodie. “You’re . . . really good at that. Should post this behind a pay wall.”

Bittle ducks his head, averting his gaze as he adjusts his collar and straightens his hair before taking the phone back and immediately deleting the video. Jack doesn't understand why until Bittle bridges the small gap between them and presses a chaste kiss to Jack's cheek. A goodbye. Maybe a thank you? Definitely flirting.

"See you at practice?"

"Yeah," Jack rests his hand on Bittle's forearm, running his thumb over a loose fold, unsure of what else to do. Bittle is warm. "Practice."

Bittle seems to be unsure as well, given he fires off a mock salute before pulling back and sprint through the trees toward the quad. Jack watches him go.

 

* * *

 

Neither of them broach the topic of the park hookup for some time, because that’s basically what it was. A hookup. In broad daylight. Jack may not have touched Bittle, just held the camera, but the exchange was intimate and highly charged. On Bittle’s part, the intent was clear. He allowed Jack to watch. Encouraged it.

Now, it’s Jack’s turn to engage, but he doesn’t want blatant sexuality. Does he want to fuck Bittle? Absolutely. Does he also want a pint-sized partner he can cuddle the living hell out of? Doubly so.

Jack’s too close to the Frozen Four to be dealing with this level of insecurity. He’s also too close to signing. He needs to sort the situation out as quickly as possible because knowing his luck, he’ll end up locking down a boyfriend right before he ships out to Vancouver or Los Angeles; and that simply won’t do.

“Bits,” Jack slides into Bittle during practice, nearly knocking him akimbo. “We should talk.”

Bitty frowns up at Jack and gestures toward Ollie and Wicks with his stick. “I had absolutely nothing to do with whatever the hell that play was, and I am highly offended you’d think so.”

“No, bud, about us.”

Bitty’s defensive posture vanishes. “Oh, us, right. Like, us-us?”

“Us-us,” Jack nods, pressing his glove gently against Bitty’s shoulder pad in a mock punch. “After breakfast?”

“Before class?”

“It won’t take long,” Jack affirms, realizing that may not have been the best thing to say and Bitty’s hopeful expression shutters. “No, no, it’s not bad,” Jack rushes to explain, barely beating Hall’s whistle.

“Okay,” Bitty breathes, with the barest hint of dread. “If you say so.”

_“Zimmermann! Bittle! Hustle up!”_

“Not bad,” Jack repeats, kicking off toward the scrum by the bench. “Gotta trust me, Bittle.”

Jack needs to trust himself to do this properly.

 

* * *

 

The moment they’re alone, Bittle starts talking like he’s never going to get the chance again, his voice low and urgent, careful of wandering ears.

“I fucked up, I know that; what I did was stupid, and careless, and if we’d been caught I could have ruined your chances of signing. The last thing I ever want is for you to feel like I’m holding you hostage because I perved on your livestream. I know I crossed a line in the park, and I’m sorry I put you in that position —”

Jack’s hand stills, key in the lock, and he debates what should safely come next.

“M.A.D.,” Jack says, twisting the lock, opening his door and gesturing for Bittle to follow him inside, but the winger hesitates.“Mutually assured destruction,” Jack clarifies, tugging on Bitty’s sleeve to get him moving. The last thing either of them need is Holster running down the stairs and catching wind of the vibe they’ve got going. “Means we both have the ability to fuck over each other; so, if you out me, I out you. We have to be civil. You were able to do that in the first place because I dragged you back there.”

“Of course we’re gonna be civil,” Bitty insists, closing the door behind them with only the slightest bit of wariness. “I’m not plannin’ to shout anything from the rooftops.”

“You liked it, though,” Jack counters gently. “Right? You liked it as much as I did?”

Bittle’s got the same blindsided look on his face Jack’s seen in nature documentaries where people shine flashlights at bullfrogs and the frogs forget how to move.

“You know, I pleasure myself on camera for the enjoyment of random men,” Bitty says, holding eye contact, almost like a challenge. “You think I’m not having a good time gettin’ frisky with the handsomest man I’ve ever met?”

“I’m handsome?” Jack edges into Bittle’s space, backs him against the door.

“Handsomest,” Bitty teases, with the barest hint of nervous energy.

Jack realizes the answer isn’t enough. He doesn’t just want Bittle to think he’s attractive, he wants Bittle to like him. Randos can objectify Jack, that’s the whole business model; it’s another subject entirely for the man Jack’s been crushing on for months to see him as a faceless piece of ass.

“Not because you like me as a friend?” Jack questions, anxiety slipping through with every word. “Or because we have classes together, or because I’m a good captain and you like playing with me?”

The sultry expression on Bittle’s face shifts, easing into something gentler and far more fond. “Silly boy,” he chides, reaching up to touch Jack’s cheek with a kindness he doesn’t deserve. “You’re the sweetest, kindest, nicest guy I know. All that time you spent helping me, looking after me, sure you were a little rough ‘round the edges in the beginning, but you came around.”

“Bits,” Jack swallows around the compliments. “I like you. A lot.”

“Like you, too, Honey.” Bitty smiles, lips pressed in a thin line like he’s got far more to say on the subject, but it’s not time yet.

The softness passes, they remember that they’re both young men, alone in Jack’s bedroom, and nature takes its course. Jack doesn’t know who initiates the kiss, but soon it doesn’t matter; they’re connected by their lips, Jack’s desperation matched by Bitty’s equal amounts of enthusiasm, fisting his hands in the fabric of Jack’s shirt and moaning into his mouth.

“You have any idea how stunning you are?” Jack breaks away and rests his forehead against the fringe of Bitty’s hair. “Your body, the way you skate, the way you say pecan even though it’s wrong as shit — you’re a fuckin’ beaut, Bittle.”

Bitty gasps in mock annoyance at the pecan line before he realizes what Jack’s just said and his eyes go glassy. “Wait, really?”

“Yes,” Jack laughs and kisses his temple, pulling them both back far enough he can wrap his arms around his winger.“You’re amazing.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t found the channel,” Bitty whispers, tucking himself against Jack’s chest, worming between the folds of his track jacket.

“You never know,” Jack posits, wrapping his arms around Bitty and trying to imagine a world where this wasn't the end result of terrible, life altering discoveries. "We might have figured it out on our own. Like normal people, I guess."

“I’m glad I did happen this way,” Bitty insists, hugging Jack tightly, rubbing his face against Jack's shirt. "Now we know each other's biggest secrets. Everything else from here should be easy as pie."

"I'm not good at pies, yet," Jack reminds, dropping a kiss to Bitty's cowlick.

"Well, how about I teach you how to bake," Bitty looks up with a wide smile, easily the brightest thing in Jack's life. "And you can teach me how to  get my viewers up!"

* * *

 

 


End file.
